Writing my response was easy. Sending not so much. “Not.”
I counted the down the seconds until the second buzz.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe whatever you want.”
I cast the phone aside and returned to the paperwork in front of me. Lydia’s proposal was virtually faultless. The girl had skill. The phone started up again, rattling against the desk top. It disturbed my pen alignment. I put them straight again before viewing the message.
“Will I see you tonight?”
“No.”
“Definitely not?”
“Definitely not.”
“Positive?”
“Fucking hell, Rebecca. NO, you will not see me tonight.”
A few minutes delay.
“Spoilsport. Cara says she’s forgotten what your palm feels like.”
“I very much doubt that.”
I needed out of this Lydia Marsh shit. The suggestion that she move in with Rebecca had been a bad one, a rash decision made purely by my cock. Now she was there to stay, holed in tight with the only person I called a friend. I’d shit my own bed by courting a ridiculous fantasy. Bad form, James, bad fucking form.
Fuck no-one you know, and know no-one you fuck. I held on to my mantra daily, gripping it in white knuckles every time she entered my room, every time the ping of my email sounded with her name, every time she crossed my path in the fucking corridor.
She brought me coffee every fucking morning, just how I liked it. Just like we were friends, placing it on my desk with the same shy smile every motherfucking day. And the meetings, countless fucking hours of watching Lydia Marsh watching me, oblivious to the torment of her pretty green eyes. Lydia Marsh who didn’t think I cared shit for her. It’s better that way. Definitely better for me.
I’d given Explicit a wide berth for weeks. The club regulars dulled to grey once I’d seen the pain in Lydia Marsh’s eyes. Even sweet little Cara, even Rebecca. What I’d seen in Lydia was real. Beautiful, hot, raw pain; her broken soul peeking out through the cracks in her armour for just one single helpless moment, and I’d seen it. I’d seen her. Even if I bleached my retinas she’d still be there, sobbing her hard little heart out in the kitchen.
I slammed the file shut and smoothed down the edges. Perfect order. Just how I liked it.
***
I didn’t tell Bex I’d changed my plans. She’d find out for herself soon enough.
In my craving for a distraction I’d done the unthinkable. I’d pulled out the little black book. The virtual little black book, of course: full of email addresses and online dating profiles all tagged together nicely with photos of my encounters. I’d checked them out one by one, browsing for the perfect Lydia Marsh antidote. Several were off the radar, status relationship or no longer active at all, others I’d red flagged as emotional no-gos. I only hit one lucky jackpot. A submissive known as Violet from over in Kent, far enough away to avoid ‘just passing’ or suggestions of coffee, but close enough to make it in on short notice. She’d been good last time around. Nicely experienced. Really fucking dirty but a little too fucking keen. Still, we’d passed the six month cool-off, she was green light status all over again.
I’d dropped her a message, making it perfectly clear what I wanted from her. She’d taken the bait, just like I’d hoped. I used the opportunity to check out Masque’s profile. It was still relevant. Sparsely populated, unrecognisable and entirely untraceable.
Interests - Everything. Every. Fucking. Thing. No vanilla.
Seeking - Sex only. Casual encounters.
Not in a hotel bed, with the cute little coffee trays and in-room satellite TV. Not in some random woman’s living room surrounded by domestic trinkets and family photos, and sure as hell not in mine. One venue only. Public, casual, impersonal. No strings, no questions, just filthy rough sex. They’d never even see my face.
It’s amazing how many women want it that way.
I took up my position at the shadowy side of the bar, watching for my guest. I was invisible from the main entrance, well placed to enjoy her nervousness as she looked around the room for me, jittery and unsure as the stepped amongst the club regulars. I saw Violet’s hair first, redder than I remembered, piled up high on her head in a vintage wave, her long neck sloping down into narrow collarbones. She was older than me, hitting just the other side of forty and blessed with both a high pain threshold and a deep-seated desire to be abused in public. She was a gusher, with a pussy long ripened for punishment, conditioned for the hard stuff by two rough labours and a special-interest side income. Pay-per-minute webcam, fucking herself raw with any crazy implement her public paid for. It was her edge over the younger competition. Good news for her bank balance and good news for me. She’d take my whole fucking fist without so much as a whimper. Dirty bitch. My cock twitched. Thank sweet Jesus for that.